


when the future starts so slow

by emotionalpanda



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/F, Fake Character Death, Fix-It, POV Root | Samantha Groves, Root is Alive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:21:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26805784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionalpanda/pseuds/emotionalpanda
Summary: Root falling in love with Shaw and then having to fake her death to secure their future"When the Machine tells you the idea, you know what you have to do. It’s a complicated plan, but it’s necessary. If you want to have a more normal life, you have to kill this life. You have to reboot yourself to upgrade. You have to."
Relationships: Root | Samantha Groves/Sameen Shaw
Comments: 21
Kudos: 110





	when the future starts so slow

**Author's Note:**

> amy said root was alive and that's enough confirmation for me!

It starts out with a bullet wound. She shoots you. There’s a hole in your body, but it makes you feel holy. You’ve already met god and now you’re getting to know the next best thing. You don’t know what it is about her, but you know she’s going to be important to you. 

She goes by Shaw, but she lets you call her Sameen. Sometimes she even lets you call her Sam. The sound of your old name feels different on your lips now, less like a curse and more like a prayer.

She’s built differently: all sharp angles, dashing forward like an arrow. You think maybe being targeted could be a good thing, if she’s the archer.

She’s stoic, never really one to smile. She wears all black or all white, no in between, no color. She wants you both dead and alive, like you’re Schrödinger’s cat in that stupid little box.

She’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen, and you usually don’t care much for people. People are just bad code, you think. They’re bugged to a point of no return. There’s no way to fix them.

But you wouldn’t fix anything about her. She’s broken in a way that a mosaic is: the cracks are clear but that’s the point. She takes the rubble and turns it all into something steady.

She says she’s better at hurting people than she is at fixing them, but you know that’s a lie. After every mission, when you’ve been struck by a stray bullet or threatened by a Samaritan operative, she peers at your wounds with precision. She stitches you up in worried silence, her eyes saying something like _Be Careful_ , and it’s more effective than any pain pill. 

It’s hard for her to admit that she cares. She says she cares about the mission, that she’s in it for the dog, that everything is just a coincidence. Every phrase is the tip of the iceberg, but you’ve brought your scuba gear and you don’t care how cold the water is.

When she rejects Tomas, you know it’s real. You know you haven’t been making it up all this time. When she rejects Tomas, it’s like a promise. You come before any man. You come before any woman. You matter to her in a way that she doesn’t articulate. 

Maybe she never needs to articulate it. Maybe the actions are enough. Maybe it’s a ridiculous idea, the idea that you two could ever be together, but you hold it close to you like a locket around your neck, like a stuffed animal at night.

When you feel hopeless, you imagine her rolling her eyes: a substitute for a smile. You think of sandwiches with no mayo; sandwiches buried under hills of pepperoncinis. You think of granola bars tossed out of windows in December. You think of New Jersey diner pancakes and coffee that tastes like sour mud. 

You think you could survive anything to be by her side: hearing her snark, giving her snacks. You want her to eat well: pastries, steak, and other things… (some meals are best served after the plates have been shattered). 

You think you could survive anything to keep her safe.

When the Machine tells you the idea, you know what you have to do. It’s a complicated plan, but it’s necessary. If you want to have a more normal life, you have to kill this life. You have to reboot yourself to upgrade. You have to.

It hurts, not being able to tell her about the plan. You know she would stop you.

You can’t let her stop you. The risk is too high. 

You tell her, “I’m not leaving you again!” You mean it. You really, really mean it. But she stands at your _grave_ as if you’re really gone, and it feels like you broke your promise, even though you didn’t (at least, not really). 

You cover your body in makeup: whites and greens to make yourself a ghost. You’re thankful for the time you spent working as a makeup artist, and the time you worked at Spirit Halloween selling zombie costumes, and the time you spent as a hospital administrator. You have all these specific talents, learned on the job over the years. They come in handy, sure, but really all the jobs have reminded you that you don’t have a place in the world; you don’t fit in anywhere.

You’re always weaving in or skipping out. You’re like unfinished stitches: you leave wounds open everywhere you go. 

Maybe you’re tired of being the liability. Maybe you’re tired of being the one who gets everyone into trouble. Maybe you’re tired. A rest would be nice.

With the makeup on, you lie in the morgue, a thin white sheet covering most of your body. The Machine had given you access to the most specific drugs: cocktails of chemicals that could stop your heart and start it up again. For a minute or two, you’re legally dead. It’s enough to be convincing. 

You take out your cochlear implant. You cut it out yourself because you want to feel something other than longing (longing for a future you might never get to have). You take it out because that’s what Samaritan wants. They want the electronics; the data is more important than the body. Maybe they won’t go looking for the body. 

The waiting is the worst. You can’t come out of hiding. You can’t go and comfort Shaw.

The Machine takes your voice to make your death look convincing. Even Shaw is convinced. You think that hurts more than the self-inflicted scalpel. 

You convince the Machine to let you talk to Shaw. You say you’ll mimic Her as best as you can. You won’t flirt, you won’t call Shaw sweetie, you won’t give the secret away (no matter how much you want to, you know you have to wait it out). While mimicking the Machine, you quote your own thoughts. You tell Shaw that if she were a shape, she’d be an arrow. You hear her shy sniffle; she’s shedding a single tear. You think it sounds a lot like _I love you._

You want to make a joke about Cupid, about love and how it pierces, but that joke will have to come later. Maybe you’ll tell it over bad coffee and warm pancakes, when you’re safe and sound in a dimly lit booth and the only thing you have to worry about is what sides you’ll order off of the forty page diner menu.

The trouble you go through is worth it. You watch Samaritan fall to its knees. Your “death” causes a ripple effect, and the waves are too big for Samaritan to weather. 

When it’s all over, the sun rises again. Everything’s quiet, but not in an eerie way. You think that finally, it’s time to meet your future. 

Shaw’s walking Bear down the street when you call the pay phone from your safe house. The Machine shows you video feeds from the street cam. The phone rings twice before she answers it. You expect her to be wary. 

When she picks up the phone, you take a deep breath and it comes out more like a sigh.

“Hey sweetie…”

You watch her eyes light up, then dim back down in grief. 

“...You miss me?”

She steels herself, keeps her face neutral, but there’s a flicker of hope in her features: a flame only you can see. 

You clarify, “It’s Root.”

She raises her eyebrows and waits for you to prove it. Anyone can record your voice and claim to be you, but not everyone knows what you know. 

“You really think that I would leave you without a kiss to say goodbye, Sam? Come on, you should know me better than that. I never leave a girl hanging, unless, of course, she wants me to…” 

The recognition blinks in Shaw’s eyes. Her lips turn up in the slightest of smiles. She believes you.

You tell her your location. 

You wait for her to come home. Home isn't just a place. Sometimes, it's a person. 

(Sometimes the future starts slow, but it starts. You’d be willing to wait forever for that starting.)

**Author's Note:**

> yes i have "the future starts slow" by the kills on repeat. what about it?


End file.
